Page 10 of Wicked Games

Brooke: Seth doesn’t have time. Planning, looking at land, campaigning for funds, it’s so . . . involved. There are days I’m gone from the minute I wake up until dinner. Seth’s doing what he’s good at, and so am I.

Hattie: The city of Ashfield is very fortunate to have you and Rowan taking on a task of this size, and this will make a positive impact on the community for decades to come. Is there anything else you’d like to add before we sign off?

Brooke: Just that the grand opening will be in September. We’re on schedule to open our doors when the school year starts. Hopefully, sometime toward the end of July, we’re going to hold a fundraiser as one last push, but I don’t want to say too much. I hope you’ll join us, Hattie.

Hattie: I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you, Brooke, for your time. I appreciate it.

Brooke: Thanks, Hattie. The same to you.

I close out of the post before I accidentally publish the stupid thing. There was a reason why Hattie didn’t, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe Brooke regretted the interview and asked Hattie not to publish it. My sister wasn’t a bitch, and she would have held it back if Brooke had asked. Maybe Brooke wanted to change or add something, or maybe the video part of the interview didn’t turn out. Hattie videotaped her interviews and hid them behind a paywall. The text version was free on her blog, but if you wanted to watch, you had to subscribe. It’s how Hattie made her money. That would be on her laptop, but if Bill didn’t have the password for her website, I doubt he can get into her computer. I don’t have it either, and only an IT guy or a computer forensics cop would be able to bypass it. I’ll leave it alone for now. There’s no reason to believe she has anything on it that would help us figure out who killed her.

I finish my wine and open the post I wrote yesterday.

To Hattie’s loyal readers. I am so sorry to let you know of Hattie’s passing. Yes, it’s been four months since her death, and I deeply apologize that so much time has gone by. We’ve been mourning, as I’m sure you can understand. Hattie loved her work, loved⁠—

How do I say she loved dragging everyone’s skeletons out of their closets? I never minded what she did, rumors paid her bills and Darren paid mine, so I wasn’t in any position to judge her anyway, but there were a lot of people who did mind.

—finding out the truth. She believed in justice, cheering for the underdog⁠—

If that’s what you call outing a cheating husband so his wife could sue the pants off him in court.

—and making the world a better place.

I grimace. That’s not exactly what she did, but I’m sure Brooke Lockwood tells herself she’s making the world a better place too, every time she crawls into Rowan Vale’s bed.

She will be dearly missed. Her website and blog will remain intact during the investigation. Please feel free to leave your sentiments in the comments. Let’s mourn for Hattie together.

Best, Avery McKay

My hand trembles as I click Publish, and a moment later a notification pops up that says the post is available to view. I feel sick, but I don’t know why. Detective Crane said he wanted me to do it, and even then he might not care what comes of it, if anything.

Tears trickle down my cheeks. Hattie and I weren’t glued at the hip, but we were close and had dinner a couple times a week. Bill and Darren got along, which was a bonus, and the four of us spent countless evenings together watching a movie or just having drinks and hanging out.

Another thing I’ll have to adjust to. I bet Seth’s evenings are just as lonely as mine. Used to family dinners, giving his son a bath and getting him ready for bed. Bedtime stories. It’s what Darren will have in a year, some bright young thing thirteen years younger than me giving him his heart’s desire. A newer model, but I’m not that old, only broken in a way that can’t be repaired.

I close my laptop and rinse out my wineglass. Seth has good taste, and I wiggle the cork back into the bottle. There’s no point in letting the rest go stale.

The evening stretches ahead of me, and I peer across the backyard to Seth’s house. He doesn’t have any lights on, and I can’t see much. I hope he’ll be okay, and that he has someone to talk to. That’s probably Violet. I huff a quiet laugh. Brooke was jealous of her, and there’s no doubt she made Seth and Violet closer than ever before.

My phone chimes and I pick it up. “Hello?” I ask, though I know who’s calling. I can’t get the inflection out of my voice.

“You did it,” Bill says.

“Yeah. Now I guess we just wait and see what happens.”

“I guess so. Goodnight, Avery.”

“Goodnight, Bill,” I say, relieved he doesn’t want to talk longer.

I disconnect the call, set my phone on the counter, and stand in my kitchen alone.

Death is strange. You know it happened to someone you love, someone you care about, but you can’t feel it. I mean, you can, the emptiness, the feeling that something isn’t right, but beyond that, nothing happens. You’re expected to shower, dress, work. Live. Life goes on, but it’s hazy, surreal, when people expect you to do it. And then you do, and it feels odd, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. Like you’re trespassing in your own life.

Julianne says to embrace it. She’s more my friend than boss now, even flying in to attend Hattie’s funeral. I’ve written for Bloomscene for a long time, my essays still a popular feature, which I’m grateful for. I don’t know what I’ll do when they decide not to print me anymore. I know that day will come, maybe not soon, but it will, and I should have a backup plan. My book did okay—I earned out my advance—but that’s all I can say it did and my advance wasn’t large. When I say Darren supported me, I mean it. So, I need the money my essays bring in, and I sit on the end of the dock that’s in my backyard with a notebook and a pen, hoping I can find something deep and meaningful to write about. I’ve written a couple of essays ahead, so it’s not urgent that I come up with anything, but I also don’t want to go too long. I like to write, can scribble all day, but that doesn’t mean my words are worth printing. I need to keep my head in the game. A heart in the margin isn’t the best way to start.

I fill it in.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Seth striding across the grass holding two bottles and something flat and black.